The Trial of Morrigan Crow; Morrigan Crow's Revenge

Chapter 19 - Trust (Really REALLY short chapter)

"At some point, I even questions myself whether you are really Mog, not someone using their knack to toy with me," Jupiter chuckled lowly.

"I can even see some part of you with my knack...their is a large cloudy mist around you."

Morrigan kept quiet, her heart beating faster every second.

"But I still want you to know," Jupiter stared into her eyes, "That I trust you."

.

.

.

Morrigan walked slowly back to her room, Jupiter's words echoing in her head.

"I don't know what you're hiding away from me, although I have my suspicions. But everybody have their little secrets."

A smile crept onto Morrigan's face, at least she knows, there is always someone their for her, someone she could trust.

The halls of the Hotel Deucalion were warm and familiar as Morrigan walked back to her room. Exhaustion crept into Morrigan's limbs as she shuffled to her room, thinking longingly of her many pillows and thick duvet and hoping her fireplace was still alight, somehow knowing it would be.

As she reached out to open her bedroom door, a cold, bony hand grabbed her arm. She gasped and jumped backward, activating a bit of Wunder for protection.

"Oh! It's you, Dame Chanda."

"I didn't mean to frighten you, sweet girl," said the soprano. "I'm just heading off to bed myself. Aren't we a pair of night owls! All that rich Christmas food keeping you up too, I suppose?"

Morrigan smiled awkwardly. Luckily she didn't do any harm, otherwise she would have never forgive herself. "Yeah."

"Well, as I couldn't sleep, I've been doing a bit of digging through my old books and boxes of records." Dame Chanda pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, unfolding and gently smoothing it. "I thought you might be interested to see this. I knew I had a likeness somewhere. It's not recent, of course. He must have been in his twenties or thirties. He'd be well over a hundred now. Quite a good-looking young man, was the infamous Ezra Squall, as you can see—although I suppose that's an unfashionable opinion these days. For goodness' sake, don't tell anyone I called a mass murderer handsome—they'll come for me with torches and pitchforks." She raised an eyebrow, smiling conspiratorially at Morrigan. "You can keep this one, it's just a print of the original oil painting. I'm pleased you've taken an interest in Nevermoor's history, however ghastly this particular period may have been. Good night, Miss Morrigan, and a glad Yuletide to you, my dear." She squeezed Morrigan's hand as she left, looking at her kindly, as though she'd wanted to do something nice for the poor girl who didn't have a chance of getting into the Wundrous Society.

Morrigan gave her a smile and nodded but her eyes was glued to the painting.

The man in the painting smiled tranquilly. His ash-brown hair was slicked back, his old-fashioned suit immaculate and unmistakably expensive. The dark eyes, the skin so pale it was nearly translucent, the thin pink smile and angular features, and a scar, the thin white line that cut one eyebrow clean in half.

A smile flashed across Morrigan's face. The man in the painting was her teacher, Ezra Squall.